


The Jaws of Madness

by AndThenHeGotKnockedUp



Series: Brightly ABO [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alpha Martin Whitly, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Hand Jobs, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Martin Whitly Loves Malcolm Bright, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Underage Sex, Omega Malcolm Bright, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp/pseuds/AndThenHeGotKnockedUp
Summary: Malcolm needs to tell his father this will be his last visit.He doesn't need to go into heat at Claremont.-Pre-canon ABO set around the time Malcolm applied to the FBI.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Series: Brightly ABO [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072535
Comments: 14
Kudos: 131





	The Jaws of Madness

###### Day One.

The siren is like something straight out of his nightmares. He startles badly, nearly choking on his own spit as he swivels on shaky legs and meets Mr. David’s solemn gaze through the glass. Behind him, there’s a slight creak as his father gets to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” Mr. David shouts through the door. “It’s Claremont policy.”

The small cup of yogurt he’d managed that morning curdles in his gut. Malcolm doesn’t need him to explain, not anymore. He’s all too aware of his body now. His skin itches, and he feels sweaty in the light dress shirt and thin college sweater that clings uncomfortably to his torso. The instability in his limbs isn’t just anxiety or stress. The constant fidgeting that catches his father’s attention isn’t wholly based in the fear of how the alpha will react to him leaving once and for all. 

This is heat. 

“No,” Malcolm mutters, taking a step towards the door. “You have to let me out!”

Mr. David doesn’t. In fact, he’d lose his job if he did. Claremont is full of alphas, both inmates and guards alike. The security system is built to shut down access when rut or heat pheromones are released, and while it can be overridden with high enough clearance, it’s never been granted before. It’s for everyone’s safety. 

It’s especially for Malcolm’s. If his heat managed to trigger the system before he was aware of it himself, it’s bound to be a strong one. Inmates would riot at the smell of him in the halls. Not even the guards would be trustworthy, especially not when his name carries no weight anywhere anymore.

He already feels the slick building. A whine rips out of his throat. 

A warm, comforting hand clasps his shoulder. “My boy,” his father says soothingly. “Your heats still haven’t evened out, have they?”

Malcolm melts into the contact even as he berates himself for it. He shakes his head numbly. His heats have never been predictable — either in timing or in strength. If he were a normal omega, they’d come every three months and last three to five days. They’d leave him desperate and wanting but not so much that he couldn’t feed himself. 

But Malcolm hasn’t been normal for years. Never, depending on who you ask. His first heat, weak but sudden, hit him three years before the average, starting less than 24 hours after he watched cops lead his alpha father away in cuffs. No one understood what was going on. Not until the pheromones became strong enough to scent. His poor omega mother scrambled to throw a nest together for him. She smelled like liquor every time she checked in on him, but it didn’t stop her from bringing him water and snacks, from wiping the sweat from his brow with a blissfully cold washcloth. 

His doctors concluded it was stress. The weight of losing an alpha father would be hard on any child, omega or not, and Malcolm’s closeness with the man only made it worse. The eyes of the world on his back didn’t help. All the doctors could do was recommend they track his heats. When they proved to be irregular, birth control came up. It helped. Somewhat. He still had to be aware of his body at all times. He still had to learn to read the signs. 

Usually, the hardest heats would hit after he skipped one. 

This time, he hadn’t. His last heat was only two months prior. He shouldn’t get one for another month at least. 

Malcolm snaps his jaw shut, muffling the whine he can’t quite cut off. He lets his father guide him to the thin prison bed settled against the bare wall. 

His father sits next to him. There isn’t much in this cell. “Look on the bright side,” he says, annoyingly cheerful. “More time with Dad!”

Malcolm presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. His heats are horrible enough in his room back home, with him writhing in his pitiful nest and aching for an alpha he’ll never deserve. He’s long since banished his mother from the room, too. While she still drops supplies at the door, he can’t bear to see her in those moments. The thought of suffering through a strong heat here, in a prison cell with his father…

It’s too much. 

“I want to go home,” he whispers and doesn’t care that the words sound wet. Tears seep past his palms. Any moment now, he’ll break. 

In response, his father puts an arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer the way he used to when Malcolm was young and unpresented. He holds him tight. The weight of his arm, the pressure of his hug, and the alpha scent Malcolm’s known since the moment he was born are all balms on his frayed soul. Martin knows it, too. He may not have been an OB, but he was a doctor with a hunger for learning. He’s most definitely aware of how to calm a panicking omega in heat, how to use his biology to its utmost advantage. “Hey now, maybe your mother will use some of that famous Milton charm and get you out of here.”

They both know she won’t be able to do a thing. 

Malcolm lets his head fall onto his father’s shoulder anyway. He lets his presence lull him away from the edge of his sanity. 

He barely has a choice. 

A few hours later, the outermost door to the cell opens. They both watch a frowning Mr. David unlock the small hatch on the main door — the one used to give Martin his meals during ruts. He holds a tray through the gap. 

Martin gently pulls away from his son, tucking his blanket around him as a small form of comfort, and takes it. There’s a sandwich on it, a small cup of applesauce. Nothing fancy. He puts it on the ground and turns for the second tray. This one has even more simple fare on it. There’s a cup of cubed cheese and another of small pieces of cold chicken. 

Malcolm shivers at the silent confirmation that he’s stuck here. 

Mr. David’s gaze lingers on him, concerned, and then he’s locking the hatch again. 

Taking a bite of his sandwich, Martin picks up both trays and strides back to the bed. “Looks decent,” he says as he puts the second tray on Malcolm’s lap. “You do need plenty of protein to get through this, my boy.”

Malcolm stares at it. “I’m not hungry.” He’s not. He’s already wet. Wanting. 

“I know,” Martin says, wrapping an arm around him again,” but I insist. Doctor’s orders!” He squeezes his shoulder.

An alpha order, too, or it will be if Malcolm doesn’t eat. Although that wouldn’t really force Malcolm to do it, either — the two of them not being mates and Martin being on medication to suppress the strength of his alpha voice — they both know he’s always been a little more likely to listen to his father. 

Malcolm picks up a cube of cheese and places it in his mouth. His teeth sink into the soft colby jack, but he barely chews, barely tastes the morsel. In a matter of hours, he’ll be reduced to a whimpering, begging mess. He doubts his father’s presence will make much of a difference at all. It’s been years since the presence of a parental scent has provided any comfort. 

Now it’s just a waiting game.

###### Day Two.

Malcolm wakes up drenched, hips rocking against the warm body next to him, cock screaming to be touched, ass aching from the emptiness. His first thought is for the box of heat aids he keeps stashed under his bed like a dirty little secret. There’s nothing wrong with aids, and he knows it. He just hates the reminder of how desperately lonely his heats are.

His second thought is the realization that the person he’s been — still is — humping is his father. His eyes shut in shame even as his hips keep up their desperate rhythm. 

A broad hand rubs soothing circles on his back. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, my boy,” Martin says, having likely been awake the entire time. “Nothing at all. It’s biology.”

Maybe it is, but if the world wasn’t so cruel, Malcolm wouldn’t be in a cell right now, quickly working himself to orgasm against his father’s leg. A different man wouldn’t even let him. 

Martin, on the other hand, is quite possibly enjoying his newfound dependence. 

Another soft reassurance, another pass of that hand, and Malcolm muffles his cry in vibrant orange as he adds to the mess in his pants. He wishes he could say his tears were born of relief. Realistically, they’re coming from a place of frustration. Orgasms without a knotting have never done much to ease the inferno. He knows the further he falls, the less they’ll help. By tomorrow, not even a fake knot will give him a break. Not that that matters, since he has none of his heat aids with him. 

And Claremont will provide food and food only.

As if summoned, Mr. David shows up at the door and unlocks the hatch once more. 

“Ah, Mr. David,” his father says jovially, still running a hand down his back as Malcolm curls deeper into his chest, “could we get a change of clothes as well? Something for my son, at least.”

The guard nods and leaves immediately. 

Both older men must be aware that he won’t stay clothed for long at this rate. Malcolm certainly knows it, feels the trickle of dread down his spine even as resignation settles across his brow. He still murmurs a thank you when Mr. David is back with three sets of prison orange — two small and one bigger. 

Martin gently untangles himself from Malcolm’s desperate grasp to retrieve them and the next round of food. He hums a joyful tune as he sets everything down on the bed next to his son. “Let me change, and we’ll get you situated.” With the same confidence he’s always had, Martin strips right then and there and pulls on the larger set.

Malcolm tries not to watch. He really does. He shouldn’t want to, either, but the scent of alpha is so strong here. It’s familiar and yet doesn’t register the way it used to. Was it the long semesters away? The dwindling visits? All Malcolm knows is that the half-hard jut of his father’s cock draws his eye in this moment, pulls a gush of slick from his heat-stricken body. He screws his eyes shut and clenches his jaw against the whine that wants to escape. 

Across the room, there’s a slight creak and then a rush of water. It doesn’t last long, and then Martin’s humming nears again. The bed dips. A hand brushes his hair from his face. “I can’t imagine you’re comfortable,” his father says teasingly. “I have a fresh set of clothes and a wet cloth with your name on it.”

Keeping his gaze down, Malcolm sits up and pulls his sweater over his head with numb fingers. The shirt underneath it is drenched in sweat, and pulling it off is akin to walking out in the middle of December without a coat. He shivers and swallows. Pants next. His legs protest as he staggers to his feet. He struggles with the button, scowls in frustration. God, he needed a knot a good half an hour ago. 

“I’ve got you, my boy.” Gentle hands push his out of the way, and Martin deftly unbuttons and unzips him, tugging both pants and boxers down until they fall to pool around his feet on their own. 

Malcolm steps out of them and stands naked in front of his father. He shivers again, this time not from the cool air against his heated skin but with the lust that’s already warming him up. His legs shake. He sways on his feet, resists the urge to tangle a pleading hand in Martin’s jumpsuit. 

His father kicks the clothes to the side. With a clinical hand, he wipes Malcolm’s cock clean of his spend with the wet cloth. He folds it and swipes it along the trail of slick he’s leaking, too. The other half of it is dry, and so Martin follows up with the same distant touch. It hits the pile of their dirty clothes with a soft thwack.

When Malcolm looks over, he notices it was his father’s undershirt. He tries not to think about how their combined scent must smell on the fabric. His cock twitches against his stomach. 

“Why don’t we wait to get you into fresh clothes?” his father says idly, eyes flickering down to his groin in purposefully obvious fashion. 

But Malcolm shakes his head. Now that he’s awake, he’s determined to go as long as he can without touching himself — or his father. It’s a fool’s choice, maybe. His hole clenches around nothing. He bites his lip and sways towards Martin, who shrugs as if it’s no big deal.

“Well, it’s your choice.” His father unfolds one of the smaller jumpsuits. 

Malcolm lets him help him dress, thankful Martin doesn’t say a word about the slick that quickly replaces what was cleaned up. He even lets his father guide him into an embrace and back to the bed. The contact should bother him, if not considering the application he sent to the FBI a week prior then for the way it makes his cock smear precome on his stomach, but he’s craving it too much to pull away. The arm across his shoulders burns a thick line through his jumpsuit. 

They sit there like that, scents mingling just a touch, food abandoned next to them. 

It lasts maybe five minutes before Malcolm turns his head and tucks his nose into the crook of Martin’s neck. He finds the bare skin there, the old faded scar from his mother’s teeth, the scent glands that scream alpha alpha alpha. A low moan slips past his lips. 

His father rubs his arm with an idle thumb. 

Malcolm curls into the alpha’s side. He clutches at rough orange fabric. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’s just looking for comfort. The damp patch on the back of his pants grows. 

Although he doesn’t pull Malcolm closer, Martin certainly doesn’t push him away. There’s a brief, blink-and-miss-it moment where he tenses up, but he relaxes just as fast, letting his son practically latch onto him. If anything, he’s infuriatingly distant from the reality they’re in.

It makes Malcolm grind his teeth. The desperation, the neediness grows. There’s an alpha right here. “Please,” he says, fingers twisting in the collar of his father’s jumpsuit. He doesn’t quite know what he’s asking for and he doesn’t want to. Will he even be able to look at himself after this?

Martin shifts him with disturbing ease, settles him on his lap with his legs resting off to the side. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle pleasantly. 

But there’s something dark there, too. Something that has Malcolm groaning and squirming closer. 

Just as easily as he’d helped Malcolm dress, Martin opens the front of his jumpsuit with one hand, the other still grounding his son on his lap. He smirks when he sees the mess the omega’s already made on his stomach. Trailing his fingers through wet smears of precome, he teases Malcolm with light touches nowhere near where he needs them. A brush against his abdomen, along his pubic bone. He keeps it up until Malcolm begs.

“Please,” Malcolm breathes out. He could probably come from this, too, if his father drags it out much longer. “Dad, please, I need it. Touch me. Please.”

Martin’s slick fingers around his cock are such a relief the omega shudders at the suddenness of it, which serves to pull a chuckle out of Martin. He strokes him slow but firm. Patient. He watches as Malcolm tries to buck into his fist, and the only sign he’s affected by it all is the hardness of him tucked under his son’s lap. “You’re above average for an omega,” he says, twisting his hand over the glans. “Not that that’s too surprising. You are your father’s son after all.” 

Another shudder runs through Malcolm, and he gasps against the alpha. He’s barely holding on now, barely holding back. His cock throbs in the warm grip. “Dad, I —”

Martin hums. “Go ahead.” His hand keeps up the infuriating pace, but it’s enough. He works Malcolm through the orgasm that hits him, slow and steady and unrelenting until the omega is crying out from the overstimulation. “Good boy,” Martin says lowly, proudly. He lifts his hand up to his face and smirks at the come that drips down the back of it. His tongue darts out to clean some off.

Malcolm shuts his eyes. He’s already getting hard again. He needs more, and his father’s behavior isn’t helping. The urge to rip into Martin’s jumpsuit and see just how big his cock is grows. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” his father repeats, a jovial note in his voice. Without much effort, he shifts the two of them closer to the wall so that he can lean against it, Malcolm still in his lap. “I think a short rest is in order, don’t you? Hand me those trays.”

###### Day Three.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough. Malcolm grits his teeth and doubles his efforts, his fingers squelching in all of the excess slick his body insists on producing. They’re too thin, too short. He twists in the blankets lining his nest. They tangle around him until he’s immobile. 

His hand is pulled away from his aching hole. “Shh, I’m here,” a familiar voice says.

Malcolm opens his eyes and remembers where he is. The heat fever has reached a peak high enough to make him forget that he’s stuck at Claremont, if only for a moment. His clothes were abandoned last night sometime. They felt too itchy against his sensitive skin, too confining. He can feel the flush blaze across his cheekbones, but, as always, his father is unperturbed. 

Still holding his hand, Martin pulls it up to his mouth and sucks each digit clean with a smirk that only grows wider as Malcolm moans. “An alpha’s touch — fingers or penis — is clinically proven to reduce the length of an omega’s heat. Stress levels, too.” He tugs his son closer. Their fronts are pressed up against each other’s, the alpha’s bulge nudging the omega’s cock where it dribbles precome against his stomach. “What do you say?”

Malcolm’s hand twitches as if to sink back into his wet heat again, but he knows that isn’t what his father wants. It’s not what he himself wants, either. He swallows. “Please fuck me, Dad,” he manages. 

A satisfied look settles in Martin’s eyes then. Although Malcolm has no doubt his father would step in if he was about to hurt himself, he’s equally as convinced he would sit and watch Malcolm writhe until he heard those words.

Until Malcolm admitted he needed his father, too. 

Martin leans his head down and takes a long sniff of the omega’s bare neck. “You’ve never been taken during a heat,” he says. 

“No.” As if anyone ever wanted to risk bonding with The Surgeon’s son. Maybe he’s bitter. Maybe he’s gotten used to his lot in life.

His father hums, considering his options. His hand trails down to the curve of Malcolm’s ass, and he dips the tip of his middle finger in the slight gape left behind by the omega’s desperate fingers. “You won’t be able to take my knot.” He scrapes his teeth along the untouched scent gland as he slides the finger in deeper, the obscene amount of slick Malcolm’s producing making it all too easy. “Yet.”

It’s not much. Especially not compared to the four fingers Malcolm had inside not two minutes ago, but his father’s right. An alpha’s touch makes a big difference. Just that single digit has him shuddering, trying to clench down, his hips rolling against his father’s in a bid to entice him into giving more. The heat is still there, still roaring through his body. It doesn’t hurt as much, however, not with the promise of what he really needs. His toes curl at the thought of Martin’s knot. “I need it,” Malcolm chokes out. 

“In due time, my boy.” A second finger now, the two of them as thick as perhaps three of the omega’s. His father is taking his time, clearly, and enjoying it. He finds the bump of his prostate and taps it, smiling widening at every jolt of his son’s hips. He presses down, too. Rubs. Only relents when Malcolm seizes up and dirties the front of his jumpsuit. He adds a third then and avoids direct contact with his prostate as he recovers. 

It’s maddening. Malcolm clutches at him with as much strength as he can muster, his legs still feeling like jelly, his fingers clumsy. “Dad,” he demands. His entire being aches for a knot.

Martin chuckles. “Be patient, Malcolm,” he says even as he slips a fourth finger in and zeroes in on his prostate once again. His voice lowers. “I’ll give you what you need when you’re ready.”

“I am ready,” Malcolm insists. He pushes back into the alpha’s hand. Those four fingers are already thicker than his knotting dildo at home and yet he needs more.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Martin abruptly pulls his hand free and sits up. “Present for me.”

Presenting is instinctual. Malcolm’s body sings as he gets on his hands and knees, his hole on display. A small part of his mind is screaming at the idea of what he’s about to do. Most of him doesn’t give a shit anymore, has already given in to the draw of his father’s pheromones. 

Martin shifts behind him. Two warm hands caress his cheeks and gently spread them. “Good boy,” the alpha growls. 

Malcolm moans. 

And then the bed dips, nearly knocking him on his stomach. When he looks over, his father is standing next to the mattress. The alpha sheds his jumpsuit. His hard cock bobs as soon as it’s free. 

Malcolm stares, transfixed. It’s large. Thick even before the knot. He adjusts his stance. He wants. The urge to get off the bed, push his father down, and mount himself on it hits him sudden and strong. 

Martin catches his eyes and smirks. There’s something dangerous in it, too, as if he recognizes the feral thoughts in his son’s head and is willing to put him in his place if need be. 

It’s… intoxicating. Malcolm licks his lips. “Dad,” he says shakily, “fuck me.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Martin joins him on the bed, hands like iron on his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against the omega’s clenching hole. He presses in. 

Slow, filling. Malcolm’s knuckles turn white in the thin sheets beneath him. He pushes back into it. It’s much thicker than his knotting dildo. “Fuck.”

Just as he’d worked his hand the day before, his father rolling his hips at a steady, glacial pace. Each movement is a tease, and he knows it. 

He’s waiting for Malcolm to beg. 

The omega tries to push the pace himself but gets an even tighter grip on his hips in response, forcing him to keep to his father’s rhythm. “Harder,” he demands. “Please.”

Martin follows the line of his spine up with a hand. “Of course, my boy.” His fingers tangle in short brown hair. He grips the strands with one hand, a hip with the other, and snaps his own hips sharply. 

That’s it. It’s too much and not enough, thick and overwhelming and good. Malcolm arches his head back and moans. 

Martin keeps this pace, too. He’s in total control of the speed, the power behind his thrusts, and he keeps it up until Malcolm is wailing, cock twitching below him. 

“Please,” the omega babbles. He can feel the slight catch of his father’s knot. He knows he won’t come until it’s lodged in his passage. Until they’re tied and the fire begins to recede. He clenches down. 

“Patience,” Martin grunts. His hips work even harder, and his grip will surely leave a nasty bruise in a few hours. He yanks on Malcolm’s hair. 

“Knot me!”

Cock beginning to really swell, the alpha growls and pushes the omega down into the bed. He ruts him as it begins to catch, as the smack of his hips and the squelch of his half-swollen knot echoes through the room. With one last thrust, he forces his cock in to the root and leans over his son, teeth latching onto his shoulder, sinking into flesh as easy as a spoon in pudding. 

Malcolm wails and comes against the sheets. 

###### Day Four.

The bond did help. The heat is easing, but the desire is still there, still burning bright in his groin. He still needs. It just doesn’t hurt the way it has every other heat.

His father — his alpha — leans against the headboard and gives him an indulgent look. He’s naked and has been since they first fucked the day before, his thick cock flushed where it rests between his legs. The heat pheromones in the air didn’t trigger a full rut, though they’ve done enough to ensure he’s ready to push Malcolm down into the mattress whenever he needs it. “Go ahead, my boy. Show Dad what you want.”

Want, not need.

Malcolm does want it, as much as he hates to admit it. He readily perches in Martin’s lap. His lips part at the heat of the cock he knows so well now. He wants that, yes. He also wants to leave his mark on his father’s shoulder. Complete the bond. Erase his mother’s bite. Stake his claim. He’s not sure if Martin would allow him to do so, however, and so he keeps his eyes from straying to the old scar. 

Martin laces his fingers behind his head and waits. 

Malcolm wraps a hand around the alpha’s cock. He doesn’t waste any time sinking down on it, a satisfied sigh slipping out of him as he’s filled once again. They’ve mated countless times now, but he doubts he’ll ever get bored of this feeling. “Dad,” he breathes as his ass rests in the cradle of the alpha’s lap. 

“Good boy,” Martin graces him with. His hands stay where they are.

Bracing himself, the omega rises up, feeling the cock begin to slip out of him. He rocks back down. His legs ache. He pays it no mind and builds a fluid rhythm studded with moans and gasps. Part of him wishes his father would just flip them over and fuck into him, but there’s power in this, even if Martin thinks he’s fully in control yet. For now, Malcolm controls the pace. If he can tailor it to keep the alpha satisfied, if he can get him comfortable and unsuspecting, there will be nothing to stop him from completing the circuit. 

His father’s done much, much worse to him in the past, hasn’t he?

“You still practice,” Martin observes. His arms twitch but he forces them to stay where they are. His pupils are blown wide. “How long has it been since you were on a stage?”

Malcolm shifts forward, hunching over him. The change in angle is wonderful, and now he’s only a few inches from his goal. Just a little more. He rests one hand flat against the alpha’s hairy chest, fingers splayed. This position brings their faces close together, too, but that’s the one hurdle they haven’t even approached. He knows the shape and weight of his father’s cock intimately. He couldn’t begin to describe the taste of his lips. “Nine years,” he says, the hot puff of his breath landing on the alpha’s still dark beard. 

“A shame.” Martin finally separates his hands, and they find their way to the omega’s hips. His cock is thickening at the base. 

That’s not what Malcolm wants. He panics, swats at his father’s arm, and hopes he hasn’t given himself away.

Thankfully, the action makes Martin laugh deep belly-shaking laughs that jar his son in such a way that rips a moan out of him. “You’ve got some of your mother in you,” he says, rough but pleased.

 _And a lot of my father_ , Malcolm thinks hysterically, clenching down without meaning to. He steadies himself again and fucks himself harder. It feels so good. The way his head dips down isn’t a strategic move, though it will certainly be helpful. He can feel the knot swell, feel the tautness of his father’s legs as he holds back from taking over. “Dad,” he keens. 

“You’re such a good boy for me.” There’s pride in Martin’s voice — underneath the lust. Mockery, too, because he knows what praise does to Malcolm. 

Malcolm slams down on the knot, breath hitching when the bulb pops in suddenly and with a hint of wonderful pain. His body locks down around it, encouraging his father’s cock to swell the rest of the way. 

Martin growls, satisfied. His hands land on thin hips again and tighten. 

Now’s his chance. While his alpha is distracted, while he’s busy breeding him. Malcolm lets his head drop to Martin’s shoulder. He opens his jaw. He shifts forward and snaps it shut over his mother’s old mark before his father can stop him. Blood trickles into his mouth.

Underneath him, the alpha snarls.

Malcolm releases and rears back, teeth red, the iron taste diluting in his spit.

The bond seals. 

Martin yanks him closer and smashes their lips together. He licks the blood out of his mouth, devours what’s left over. His breathing is choppy when he pulls back, but his mouth curls into a grin. “That’s my boy.”

His mate. Malcolm lets himself go boneless. He’s fucked out and sated. If he had to guess, his heat won’t last through to tomorrow.

And then he’ll have to be back for the next. And the next. His dreams of the FBI are likely ruined. 

He can’t bring himself to care. 

###### Day Five.

Martin runs a hand through his hair as Malcolm licks at the healing wound. He’s indulged the omega this way for nearly half a day now, seemingly pleased at his newfound possessive streak. 

It’s another thing they have in common. The bite on Malcolm’s neck is still tingling from the bevy of kisses it’s been subjected to. 

“I’ll be back,” Malcolm promises — both of them. It kills him to walk away now, while the bond is still fresh and settling in, but he has to. He has no intention of staying at Claremont longer than he has to.

Not that his mother wouldn’t drag him out if he did. Surely she’s already chomping at the bit to get him back. 

Martin presses his thumb into his own bite, making it throb underneath the thin collar of his son’s washed dress shirt. “I’ll be here,” he jokes.

Malcolm glances back at him once more on his way out. He meets his father’s piercing gaze. 

He’s not sure that will be true for terribly long. 


End file.
